This is a fic about Draco, when he goes to the bathroom in the sixth film, (lol! That sounds so funny!) and what he's thinking. I think Tom Felton does this part really well. But anyway, I hope you enjoy. Please tell me what you think!
I can't breathe.
I can't think.
I have to get away.
I need to run.
Run.
Run anywhere.
This bathroom seems as good a place as any.
It's cool in here.
Not hot and stuffy like the Great Hall.
I jerk my stupid woollen thing off over my head.
I hate it.
I hate myself.
Water.
On my face.
Cold.
Good.
Cold is good.
Cold.
Like me.
I sob.
Tears aren't cold.
They are hot.
I need cold.
Cold.
Like me.
Me.
Why?
Why did it have to be me?
Me.
It had to be me.
It has to be me.
Why?
He could have chosen anyone.
Anyone.
But it was me.
Me.
I have to kill him.
Me.
I am the chosen one.
Ironic that.
'The chosen one.'
Chosen.
Just chosen.
No say in it.
No control.
Chosen.
'One who, or that which is the object of choice or special favour.'
Favour.
Apparently showing favouritism is to appoint a person to kill someone.
Kill someone.
I've never killed anyone before.
What does it feel like?
To know that your own hands and words are what caused that body to become limp and no more.
To bring death to someone before their time.
Murder.
Can I do it?
Will I do it?
I have to.
That's the catch.
I have to do this.
I have to kill him.
Or he's going to kill me.
Review my lovelys! Review! :P